


The Death of Joshua Crane

by kieyra



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5171318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kieyra/pseuds/kieyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where CFD never happened, Crane still has descendants, and Abbie gets in over her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Joshua Crane

          

            He’d looked just like Ichabod. Ichabod, if his hair was a bit shorter and straighter, and his beard a little neater. If he was five years younger and wore jeans and a dark t-shirt. That was how the guy had been dressed when Abbie spotted him in Starbucks.

            “Crane …?” she’d said, pausing a few feet from his table. Hadn’t expected to see him here. Hadn’t expected to see him dressed like that. And something else wasn't quite right.

            But he heard her say the name, and he looked up.  He smiled at her. “Sorry? Do I know you?”

            Ichabod’s voice, but the accent was all wrong. He didn't sound English; he didn’t sound proper. He sounded like a surfer.

            Abbie thought fast on her feet these days. She shook her head. “My mistake. You just look like someone I know.”

            The guy looked a little confused, but he grinned in a way Crane never would, not in a million years. No guard, no guile, no calculation. “But you said my name? Didn’t you?”

            Abbie, about to turn away, stopped. “You—your name’s Crane?”

            “Joshua. Joshua Crane.”

            She stood there speechless. She wasn’t often speechless any more.

            The guy was setting his coffee down, standing up and moving towards her, which sent her guard up fast. You couldn’t take anything or anyone at face value.

            But he was still smiling. He took another step towards her. “Josh, to my friends." He paused. When Abbie didn't react, he said: "And now you tell me your name? Only polite.” Another big grin.

            She'd stared at him another second, at the face that seemed to be on the wrong person, and then she'd walked away. “My mistake,” she’d repeated, calling it over her shoulder.

            But then she’d driven around the block and come back, and waited until he walked to his car, a little hybrid with a lot of bumper stickers, and she'd noted down his license plate number.

            She’d done some discreet searches. She had to get help from a colleague at the bureau; she was no genealogist. Crane—Ichabod—was usually the one who handled the heavy lifting when it came to old records. Or Jenny. But she got everything back-traced, and she laid all the pages out in front of her, and the answer was undeniable: Joshua Crane was the direct descendant of Ichabod Crane.

            She stared and stared at the unbroken line tracing fathers and sons. And she told no one.

            Crane—Ichabod—didn’t talk much about the wife he’d left behind. He’d never even mentioned a son. But there it was, right there in the old records. A single son. And then that son’s son. And so on, right down the centuries to Joshua Samuel Crane.

            Abbie followed him around town for a few weeks. She no longer believed in coincidence. She ran a background check. He was a graduate student—a mediocre one—and he played guitar in a band. No criminal record. Never married. He seemed to have no vices besides the occasional puff on a vaporizer that Abbie suspected contained more than just nicotine. He seemed to have no interaction with occult forces. And he hardly had any family; his parents were both dead. Another coincidence she didn’t like. _Natural causes my ass_ , she thought.

            She was sitting in her car outside the bar where Joshua Crane was playing with his band. She was reading her notes, looking for some sign or mention of him, some prophecy, something to make it all make sense. She was so distracted she missed the figure walking up beside her car.

            When the tap came at her window, her fingers flexed automatically in the direction of her holster.

            But it was just him. Crane. Joshua. Josh, to his friends. Smiling at her through the glass. Leaning down, a lock of hair falling into his eyes.

            She relaxed the hand that had been reaching for her gun. She rolled down her window. “Can I help you?” she said. Pretending not to know him seemed like the best plan.

            “Starbucks,” he said. “And I saw you here last week. And at the drugstore. I mean, it's fine, but if I've got a secret admirer I'd at least like the opportunity to buy her a cup of coffee. Or a beer.”

            Abbie's stomach sank. It had been a mistake to assume he was as—well, dumb—as he seemed, as compared to Ichabod. It had been a mistake to judge him solely on that unimpressive GPA and his bright, unguarded smile.

            It was a cheap move just to regain the upper hand, but she reached into her jacket. She flashed him her badge.

            He laughed. “Come on. It’s not a crime to be in a crappy cover band.” And he smiled at her again.

            And she had no good story. She thought of a few— _I_ _’m investigating the deaths of your parents_ seemed reasonable—but discarded them all. In the end she went with the truth. “Remember how I said you reminded me of someone?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I think one of my friends may be—a distant relative of yours. I just wanted to be sure before I introduced you two.”

            And in the end, that was exactly what she’d had to do. She was in it now. Ichabod had to know the truth.

            He took it in his usual way: stoically. At first, stoically, but it all crumbled a few minutes later. “I had a son?” he said finally, weakly.

            “His recorded date of birth was seven months after you—after you died.”

            “And I have—I have descendants? Descendants of my own blood?”

            “Well, the one at least. But his parents are dead.” She showed Ichabod the picture on her phone, the one Joshua had let her take of him.

            Ichabod stared in astonishment. “He could be my brother,” he said. “And he’s—well, he’s quite _well-groomed_ , isn’t he?”

            “You both rock the facial hair. He just keeps it a little neater. Don’t be jealous.”

            Ichabod scoffed. “It seems clear he lacks my—dignified air. But it also seems undeniable that he is my kin. Or else our resemblance is a coincidence of cosmic proportions.”

            “I agree. On all counts.”

            “And you told him about me? How much?”

            “I called you a distant relative. If you want to meet him, I think we could call you a cousin instead. I’ve got his whole recent family tree. We could invent an extra branch.”

            Ichabod was silent.

            “Crane,” she said. “Do you want to meet him?”

            He wouldn’t look her in the eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Of course I want to meet my descendant.”

            So she’d set it up. A public place, the Starbucks where she’d first spotted Joshua Crane.

            It was awkward.

            It would have been worse if Joshua wasn’t so good-natured, so sunny and trusting. He’d shaken Ichabod’s hand, barely glanced at his strange clothing. “Wow,” he said. “It’s great to meet you, man. It’s crazy, you look like you could be my older brother.”

            Ichabod smiled. “Surely not _that_ much older.”

            Abbie elbowed him. Crane was falling prey to modern vanity. “Joshua is a graduate student at the university,” she prompted.

            Crane pounced on the information. “Oh? May I inquire as to your field of study?

            Joshua said, “I’m going for my MFA in Art History, but I’ve been having second thoughts.”

            “MFA?” Crane murmured to Abbie.

            “Master of Fine Arts,” she said.

            Crane managed to keep his face blank. “Tell me, what does one do with—with a degree in fine arts?

            ”One spends a lot of time in coffee shops,” said Joshua.

            Abbie chuckled.

            Crane raised an eyebrow, catching the joke. “And what is the cause of your having second thoughts, may I ask?”

            Joshua gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m not sure _history_ is the right area of focus for me.”

            Abbie winced.

            Crane was speechless a moment, then he managed: “You—you’re not interested in history?”

            Joshua shrugged again. “Don’t get me wrong—it’s important to understand what came before. Ancient Greece, the Renaissance, the Old Masters of Europe. But the older I get, the more I’m interested in what’s happening right here, right now, you know? The future of art, here in America. And frankly, history doesn’t get much duller than _American_ history.”

            Abbie stared at the floor. Ichabod nearly choked on his tea.

            It went on a bit longer, with Crane—Ichabod—becoming more formal and stilted as the two rapidly ran out of things to say to each other; and Joshua trying, without much success, to get Ichabod to nail down exactly where their family trees connected. Abbie had prepped him on the names of cousins, distant enough that Joshua shouldn’t have been able to follow, but Crane had evidently gotten rattled when faced with his own modern doppelgänger.

            When Joshua kept asking questions about this or that relative that Crane couldn’t answer, Abbie finally intervened. “I think Ichabod has to get back to the archives soon.” And she gave Crane a direct stare. “Don’t you?”

            Crane stared back at her. “What? Yes, of course. I have—erm, an appointment with Miss Jenny regarding a bit of—cataloguing. Yes, cataloguing.” He stood and at least had the presence of mind to offer Joshua a handshake rather than a formal bow. “It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance—cousin.”

            Joshua shook his hand. “Likewise. I’m going to have to give Aunt Shelly a call and see if she remembers this distant cousin Tom you mentioned. She’s the family genealogist. And maybe we can have coffee again sometime?”

            Crane had stammered something polite and perfunctory before he made his escape.

            Joshua sat back down, across the table from Abbie. He ran a hand back through the hair that was trying to fall into his eyes. “So I’m related to that guy? Are you sure?”

            “Maybe less sure than I was an hour ago,” she mused.

            Joshua laughed. “Don’t get me wrong—he seems nice enough. And we sure do look alike. But he’s—he’s a little strange, isn’t he?”

            “I prefer to think of it as quirky.”

            “How do you know him, anyway?”

            “We’re colleagues,” she said. She didn’t add: _And roommates. And partners in fighting evil. And linked by bonds you could never understand._ “He’s helped me on some cases. He’s an archivist and historian.”

            Joshua’s eyes registered alarm. “Please don’t tell me—“

            “American history, in particular,” Abbie said. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

            Joshua looked pained. “I guess I put my foot in my mouth pretty badly, then.”

            “He’ll get over it. Besides, he enjoys being outraged. And after all—you’re family. That means he has to forgive you.”

            A strange look passed over Joshua’s face. “Sounds like your family life was a little more idyllic than mine.”

            She almost had to laugh at that one, but she stopped herself in time.

            “There’s just one thing that’s disappointing about all of this,” Joshua said.

            “What’s that?” Abbie asked absently.

            He leaned forward in his chair. “I’m going to miss having you following me around.”

            She stared at him. Joshua was smiling at her, that un-Cranelike smile, ice-blue eyes somehow full of warmth. And she felt something stir, a little feeling in her stomach, the kind of thing she’d told herself she had no time for, not anymore. It had been safer, lately, to keep things—professional. Strictly professional. With everyone. All the time. She didn’t _feel_ things like this. Except she was. She was feeling it.

            She had no idea how he’d done it, how he’d gotten right past her guard like that.

            But she had too much practice, too much finesse to show it. Other than the smile that got away from her, echoing his own. “Listen, Joshua—“

            “Josh,” he said.

            _Josh, to my friends._

But they weren’t friends. They hardly knew each other. But in a way, it was like she _did_ know him. The face that was so familiar, the voice that sounded the same, the posture that was so like Ichabod’s. And she felt it in her stomach when he smiled at her, and that made no damned sense.

            “Josh,” she conceded. “My life is—a little complicated—“

            “Isn’t everyone’s?”

            “Sure, but—“

            “So I’ll put you on the guest list. Next Friday night. And you’ll let me buy you a beer before the show. You can see how terrible my band is up close and personal. It’s just not the same when you’re lurking out in the parking lot.”

            And somehow she left the coffee shop having agreed to it. She told herself she’d just text him in a few days and cancel, say that something came up. Find some way to back out of it. Let Joshua and Ichabod work out their own tricky relationship without her.

            But a deeper part of her knew that she wasn’t going to back out.

           

            ***

           

           

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a slight AU that did not contain Henry or CFD. I usually don't post works until they are completed, but I'm giving myself some wiggle room to play around with this one, especially as my knowledge of SH canon is shaky (I skipped much of S2). But I had an idea, and it was compelling, so I'm seeing where it goes.


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